


Gasoline

by chemicalflashes



Series: decayverse [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But sided with light, Dark!Colin, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-03 23:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14006775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemicalflashes/pseuds/chemicalflashes
Summary: Other people may need morale, a high self-esteem and a sense of appreciation of oneself to get through the day or to brave a war, but not him. All he needs is his can of gasoline and an engine to burn it in. Because he is not human; he is machine.





	Gasoline

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> Written for the Halsey One-Shot Competition on HPFC.
> 
> Prompt Used: "Low on self-esteem, so you run on gasoline."
> 
> I have never actually heard Halsey's songs so please don't rat me out for not interpreting the lyrics correctly. In fact I don't even know to which song these lyrics belong. I am just hoping that I saw the true meaning behind them. In hindsight, I realise I should have checked it up before writing the story.

_1992_

He is not human; he is machine, with an omnipresent camera that goes  _snap_. In the back of his mind, he knows that he has got gears, and not muscles in his limbs. Half of them say he is half mad. The other half says he is completely insane. Nobody pays him any mind, but it is not like he not cares; he may have his photos to keep him occupied but the hateful remarks that pass through his ears are not unheard by him.

" _So_ damn irritating," someone whispers haughtily. They are talking in hushed tones but he hears them anyway.

He is not human; he is machine, so he carries on, silently cursing them and vowing to prove them all wrong one day.

Just before the Basilisk petrifies him with its evil stare, he knows that he has already proved them wrong in a small way— at least he had been courageous enough to wander through the corridors while they all had huddled in their beds, too scared to move, too scared to breathe.

* * *

 

_1993_

He is not human; he is machine but it still hurts. No matter how much he tries to suppress these feelings but it still hurts. Oh God, it hurts so bad.

So he whips out a notebook and jots his thoughts, deleting them from his system like erasing files from a hardisk.

_"Everybody makes fun of me."_

_"Am I good for nothing?"_

_"Why can't they understand that I am like this? That I cannot, cannot change."_

As he writes all this out, his mind processes the fact that he has almost next to zero self-esteem.

After he has poured out all of his thoughts, he closes the journal and smiles. ****

* * *

 

  
1994

It is a pleasant evening when he is walking peacefully through the corridors, minding his own business when some pureblood elitists stop him.

"You filthy mudblood!" one of them sneers.

Before he knows what is happening, another one of them has hexed him, making his legs all wobbly like jelly and he is falling-falling-falling. He hits the stony ground in a mess of weak feet, scattered arms and closed eyes. Someone kicks his stomach but he does not wince from the pain. After a while, all of them walk away, laughing at how they got to teach a lesson to a mudblood today.

He is not human; he is machine, so he lies on the floor while waiting for his feet to normalise, thinking of all of the possible jinxes he could hex them with if he encountered them again. He would not wait and just go for it.  _Furnunculus_ seems like a good one.

* * *

 

_1995_

Umbridge summons him to her office one day and makes him write, ' _I won't use my camera_ ' with a nasty quill that draws blood out of his wrist and the back of his hand. He glares at her as he does so.

Doesn't she know that he isn't human? Doesn't the Toad realise that her methods are not going to have an effect on him? Doesn't she know that he is going to write it all and just  _forget_ it?

When he comes out of her office, he closes the door behind him, clutches his bloody hand and laughs manically. A passing boy looks at him with wide eyes full of surprise.

But he himself does not find his reaction perplexing. He does not find it to be a cause to be concerned about, even though he knows he should be.

His parents have often told him that he had always been hysterical and uncontrollable as a child, anyway.

Later that day, he takes a picture of his hand.

* * *

 

_1996_

He has a perpetual smile plastered onto his face but no one looks at the frown hiding behind it. He has shining eyes but no one looks at the dullness behind them. He has even left harrying after Harry.

He has given some time to think about some brutal truths.

There is a war looming on the horizon and he does not have time for some pointless hero worship, especially when he knows that the said hero in question cannot guarantee his or his family's safety. He still takes photos but now they don't contain just Harry but also a variety of other subjects as well. He still indulges in a little bit of photography to keep his brother from thinking that something is wrong.

And when he is alone, he turns to his second love— chemistry, researching using old books he has brought from home.

Metallic cans containing poisonous gas seem to be good weapons for a wizarding war where no one except him would know what the hell they are.

One night, when he is all alone by himself in the shadows of the darkened common room, he fetches his old notebook and throws it into the glowing embers of the fireplace.

" _Incendio,_ " he whispers softy so that not a single charred remain of the document remains around.

He does not need reminders of his insecurities on a daily basis.

What is self-esteem of any use to him, when all he has got is gasoline of years left in him? All this pent up frustration and hurt is nothing but gasoline, stored to be consumed by the flames of his rage.

Other people may need morale, a high self-esteem and a sense of appreciation of oneself to get through the day or to brave a war, but not him.

All he needs is his can of gasoline and an engine to burn it in.

Because he is not human; he is machine.

* * *

 

_1998_

As he sneaks into the warring crowds to live out the last day of his short life, he is neither human, nor machine.

He is fire feeding on an uncontrolled supply of gasoline.

And they are all going to burn in hell with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Was it any good?
> 
> I am not sure I did the prompt any justice.
> 
> This story is succeeded by _State Of Decay_.


End file.
